But Alice was not alarmed. She had never thought it possible for him to die, so quiet, so gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed.
“Father” she said, “can you stay alone while I carry Adelaide her dress? She is to pay me more than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many nice things.”
“By and by,” he whispered, “it is early yet,” and drawing Alice to him, he talked to her of her mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him that night—so near that he could almost feel her soft hand clasp his own, just as it used to do in the happy days gone by. And while he talked the darkness in the room increased—the clock struck six, and releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go.
“He felt better,” he said, “and was not afraid to stay alone.”
“You must sleep till I return. I shall not be gone long,” were Alice’s parting words, and going out, she walked rapidly in the direction of Mrs. Huntington’s.
In a very unamiable mood Adelaide met her at the door, chiding her for her delay, and saying:
“I began to think you were never coming.”
“Father has been worse, and I could not work so fast,” was Alice’s meek reply, as she followed Adelaide into the sitting-room, helping her try on the dress, which the petulant young lady declared:
Didn’t fit within a mile! It was too high in the neck—too long in the waist—too short in the skirt, and must be fixed before it was decent to wear!
“Oh, I can’t leave father so long,” said Alice, in dismay, as she thought how much there was to be done.